


i keep it undercover

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents, anya is a spy, dmitry is just there, the romanovs become an international intelligence ring after being forced out of their own country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: “Looking for a nice place to drink, comrade?”Anya reels, and comes face to face with a man half-draped in shadow. He is at least a head and shoulders taller than her; even his languid posture, lounging against the mouth of the alley, can’t hide that. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s got a hat pulled down to shade his eyes further from the nonexistent daylight.He is the greatest "undercover" cliche that Anya has ever seen -- and from an actual spy, that's saying something.





	i keep it undercover

**Author's Note:**

> me? using a Disney lyric as a fic title?
> 
> it’s more likely than you think.

Petersburg is bigger than she expected, which is probably her fault. After all, she was fully briefed before the mission even began; and she did her own research on the plane ride over here. She _knew_ hat she was heading into a busy place. She just didn’t expect the second-largest city in Russia to be, well... so big.

It is a charming place, Petersburg. There is so much history in these old streets and ancient buildings that one can’t help but being entranced by it. Sure, it’s got its flaws, but when Anya closes her eyes, she can feel the pulse of the city beneath her feet. The city is a giant ley line, pulsing with energy, and Anya feels just right in the middle of it all.

It almost makes her wish they could be here for more pleasant reasons. How nice it would be to stroll along the Neva, and take in the vast Petersburg skies... instead of being bound to a job that seems next to impossible.

(Not impossible; Anya refuses to call anything impossible. Only one spy managed to extract the Peruvian ambassador from that explosive siege last year, and it was her; if she could pull that off, she can do _anything._ This mission is not impossible — just a difficult pain in the neck.)

Alexei wanders at her side down the old sidewalk, head swiveling back and forth as he takes in the towering city that surrounds them. Petersburg has an endless amount of buildings that stretch high into the sky; that’s not even taking into account the hidden world below them. The man they’re looking for could be anywhere.

“Where would someone hide in a town like this?” Alexei wonders aloud.

Anya exchanges a glance at him before furrowing her brow. She doesn’t want to voice what they’re both thinking: _too many places._

They start with what they _have_ got: reliable, but limited, intelligence informing them that the Red Army (the radical, newly-formed mob terrorizing the city for months) base their operations in a series of hidden tunnels beneath one of Petersburg’s popular nightclubs. No name, no address — just “a nightclub”. For an anonymous informant, he was infuriatingly sparse with the information.

If there’s any place they can find Gleb Vaganov, high-ranking “official” in the Red Guard, it’s got to be there.

They start with their first nightclub on their list, intent on working their way down. They can find no sign of any hidden entrances in the back of the joint, and the owner seems adamant that he doesn’t know anything. (Much more adamant when Alexei pulls out and begins playing with his pocket knife. It’s just for show, of course — they would never torture for information, and Alexei just likes toying with that thing because he knows how much it terrifies Mama. It terrifies Anya, too — a little cut could be very bad news for both of them — but she’s been worn down by her bullheaded brother on this point.) They waste fifteen minutes before leaving, with no sign of their target.

It takes half an hour more of their fruitless quest for it to be clear that they’ll never find Vaganov this way. Anya glares down the darkened road, scuffing her foot against the street without mercy. Her brand new shoes will be ruined, but she doesn’t care. This mission is far too complicated to work in heels.

“This is ridiculous,” she finally mutters, after a canvas of their latest nightclub comes up clean. “We’re wasting our time. We’ll never find the Red Army this way.”

Alexei glances at her before dragging a hand through his hair, disrupting its usual state of carefully-styled roguishness. Exhaustion is prominent in the lines beneath his blue eyes.The boyish light that always gleans in them has dimmed, close to fading out. He’s as fed up with this wild goose chase as she is.

“Have you got a better idea?”

Anya pauses, considering. Her eyes narrow down the dark street. “Actually, I do. We need to split up.”

Alexei’s eyebrows crook up in that awful, half-skeptical way that makes him look so much like Tatiana; but he’s too used to Anya’s plans to be surprised by now. “Because splitting up is the one foolproof plan that always ends well! Of course! You’re a genius, Nastya, how didn’t I think of it before?”

“You lack my boundless imagination,” she replies, swinging lightly at his shoulder. “You check out the next club on the list. I’m going to follow a hunch.”

“Is this the sort of hunch that gets you reprimanded, or killed?”

“Maybe both.” Anya flashes a grin at him, hoping she looks more confident than she feels. “Meet me back here in an hour.”

Alexei casts her a wary look. Still, if one thing working alongside each other in the field for two years has taught the siblings, it’s to trust each other’s instincts. With a roll of his eyes, Alexei starts off down the street towards their next club.

“Call me if you find anything,” Anya hisses after him; then, a little louder, “Don’t get distracted by pretty girls! And don’t drink too much!”

He flashes her a thumbs up over his shoulder, and it quickly morphs into a peace sign. She grits her teeth in frustration. (If there’s one thing Alexei can be counted on to do, it’s what he wants.) The melody of his whistle carries him down the street.

Anya is left alone in a strange city at night, with no clue where to start.

These are the type of odds she likes.

The greatest strokes of genius — or just dumb luck — occur when you’re flying by the seat of your pants. Anya has enough experience, both as a spy and someone with a talent for finding trouble, to know. Now that she’s on her own, she knows where to start.

She goes up to the first person she sees, a tall man with hands tucked into the pockets of his greatcoat. “Excuse me, comrade, do you know someplace around her I could get a good drink?”

The man casts her a dumbfounded look. “Umm... there are a few bars down the street, I guess.”

Anya forced a smile. “Thanks so much!”

Strike one. If the man had any affiliation to the secretive Red Army, he would have recognized the familiar address of _comrade._ Instead, Anya just came off sounding like a crazy person.

She’s no novice at  _that_ game.

So, she persists, allowing her gut instincts to lead her towards whichever passersby look suspicious. Maybe it’s amateur spy work, but she’s come to learn that instincts can be your closest ally in the field — and, when she’s got them, she doesn’t second guess them. Unfortunately, tonight her instincts are giving Anastasia a fat load of nothing. She strikes out, again and again.

Just before she can start becoming discouraged, a voice from over her shoulder takes her by surprise.

“A nice place to drink, huh?”

She reels, and comes face to face with a man half-draped in shadow. He is at least a head and shoulders taller than her; even his languid posture, lounging against the mouth of the alley, can’t hide that. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s got a hat pulled down to shade his eyes further from the nonexistent daylight.

He looks like such a _cliche_ that Anya wants to burst out laughing.

Somehow, she holds her tongue. Instead, forcing as much confidence as the man’s own demeanor, she smiles. “Yes. Would you be able to show me one?”

She sees something flash from the shadows, a wicked gleam of coal-dark eyes. “I can do more than that,” he replies, a smirk in his voice. “Come on, _comrade.”_

Following shifty-looking men down dark alleys is exactly the sort of thing Papa will reproach her for once this mission is over; it’s the type of risk that falls into the more lethal of Alexei’s two categories. As far as Anya’s concerned, that’s the only type of risk worth making.

For a couple of streets she follows behind the man. No words pass between them. Thankfully, he pulls his hat off once they’re away from the mouth of the alley, so Anya can take him with a little more dignity. When his face is visible — long and handsome, featuring a strong nose and the promise of smile lines at the corners of his mouth — he no longer is such a caricature. In his loose suit jacket and tie, hair falling in a careless coif, he could just as easily be a mobster as another ordinary man on the town.

Only once they’ve reached the banks of the Neva, and the man is still winding along them with single-minded determination, does Anya start to get annoyed. “Where are you taking me?”

The man glances at her from the corner of his eye. “Do you want to get a drink, or interrogate me?”

She can do both at the same time. “We’ve been walking for ten minutes.”

“Well, you were nowhere close to the right place.” He purses his lips, and she catches a strong glaze of mockery to his voice when he says, “Your sense of direction could use some work.”

Or they need to stop working off of half-cocked informants in too-big cities. That would help.

“Well, sorry. Not _everyone_ knows this town like the back of their hand.”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “tourist”. Anya bristles, as any tourist with an ounce of dignity would.

“I was born here, _actually.”_   She draws out the word with relish, thrilled to be able to tell this man he’s wrong. “We left when I was very young, so I don’t remember much.”

His footsteps slow just enough that she is able to walk beside him, instead of in front of him. She catches him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye; there’s a slight smile on his face. He has a nice smile, she decides, and it gets on her nerves.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” he says. “I know these streets better than anyone.”

It should be a boast — especially considering Anya’s words from earlier — but somehow is isn’t. Instead, the statement is matter-of-fact; not without pride, but plain as an undecorated carpet. He’s not showing off, and he is not exaggerating.

Anya smiles back. “I’m lucky to have found you, then.”

They don’t talk after that, because there isn’t any need. After another moment, they slip back into the street; and suddenly they are there, slipping around the back of a nightclub. The man keeps to the shadows, allowing his dark clothing to conceal him. Anya, less fortunate in her heels and bright red sequined dress, doesn’t have the privilege. Instead, she holds her head high, and hopes she looks like she belongs in a nightclub, or a mafioso’s den.

There is a backdoor in the shadowed alleyway, almost like the entrance to a basement. Behind it, Anya can hear loud music, and voices shouting in thick-tongued Russian.

“Well, this is the place,” the man says abruptly. “The man you want is down there. You’re armed, aren’t you?”

All at once, alarm swells within her like a wave. She turns on her companion, eyebrows arching. Her hand twitches on reflex to the gun hidden against her thigh.

“Relax, Agent,” he mutters, in the same awful, languid voice as ever. He is not only unimpressed by her, but he’s _amused._ The realization makes Anya more furious than anything else.

“You know who I am?”

A flash of brilliant white teeth in the dark alley makes Anya’s heart beat double-time against her breast. “Who do you think provided your intel?”

Her eyes widen. He places his hat back over his messy hair, and tips it to her. “So, agent, you can take it from here, right? Unless this kind of job is too big for you...”

Anya snorts, drawing herself up to her full height. Nothing is too big for her.

“I can handle it in my own from here. Thanks, informant.” She pauses. “And by the way, throw in some more details next time. It would make my life a lot easier.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

She can not help the way her fact contorts in a glower, frustration finally coursing through her entire body. This man has been setting her on edge since the moment he took of his stupid hat, but this... _this..._

“Who are you?” she demands. “Are you an insider, or someone like me? What agency are you from?”

The man holds up his hands and begins to saunter away backwards, crooked grin painted on his lips. He looks torn between laughing and rolling his eyes. When Anya takes a step forward, he moves one more back, like he’s taken it as a challenge.

“My name’s Dmitry,” he says, ducking his head in the mockery of politeness. (It’s the furthest thing from a bow — this man, Anya decides, has never bowed to anyone in his life.) “And I’m a free agent. Good luck, Agent Romanov.”

It’s only after he fades back into the shadows, whistling a low, jaunty tune in his wake, that Anya realizes why his face is so familiar to her.

She’s seen him before. On a wanted poster, at her parents’ headquarters. _Dmitry Sudayev,_ age twenty-eight, wanted for subversive activities and ties to the Red Army. He’s very close behind Vaganov on their list of targets.

And Dmitry Sudayev is a spy. How about that?

Anya slips her gun out of her holster and smiles to herself. For now, she’ll text Alexei and lie in wait for Vaganov to emerge from the cellar. Thanks to Dmitry, she’s got all the time in the world.

She knows for a fact that she and her informant will meet again _very_ soon.

**Author's Note:**

> “no mama, i just — I have to track down THAT guy, okay — yeah, him — for no REASON, don’t ask why, just let me go get him, please —“ (100% How Anya got assigned to arrest Dmitry a week later. He’s not actually part of the Army, just an informant, so he was fine... just put up one hell of a fight.)
> 
> I might continue this lol, I had fun with this one!


End file.
